day 8: birds

You play with fire, kid,
you're gonna get burnt. Didn't
Pink say that? Ah, well.

I'm no real flame, I'm
more like something that glides, up
and out of water.

You're closing your fist
around my ankles--in twain
your palms could plain split.

Feathers could float and
fly, landing over your eyes,
can't see my flight path.

But I don't think I
will, no, heavens no, sir,
I don't think I will.

-Dana Winter